


Sunday Morning

by tentacledicks



Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 03:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18189251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentacledicks/pseuds/tentacledicks
Summary: Marcus wakes up at Wrench's place for the first time. Turns out, domestic bliss is really, really weird when Wrench is involved.





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Found an older document of DedSec-centric ficlets, and this was the only one really long enough to post. I might do the rest up in a collection someday? Jury's out on that one.

The bed was unfamiliar, flannel sheets and mismatched pillows, but the smell of grease and menthols told him where he was before Marcus even opened his eyes. Wrench’s apartment was technically an office space above the garage, but it had running water for the shop shower and plugs for a hot plate and microwave, so Wrench was happy with it. Marcus had his own reservations—all the more reason to convince Wrench to stay at his place next time.

The windows were blocked out with foil, so the room was still cool and dark when he finally opened his eyes. A quick check of his phone told him it was nearly noon (and Sitara wanted him back at the Hackerspace for ‘a Thing, not just a thing’) and surprisingly hot outside. Looked like they were getting their one hot week out of the year early, this time.

With a groan, Marcus rolled over and grabbed his glasses, shoving them onto his face as he sat up with a stretch. The posters and memorabilia came into focus, Siska movies shoved in next to sci fi classics, horror posters front and center with a few high fantasy productions hidden shamefully away in the corners. He didn’t _get_ Wrench’s whole thing with fantasy, but whatever. The dude was sensitive about liking it. Just meant he couldn’t point it out whenever Wrench quoted Shakespeare or Jane Austen too.

Speaking of, where the hell _was_ Wrench?

He grabbed his boxers off the floor, tugging them on as he navigated between the drifts of dirty clothes and books—comics, regular novels, a couple notebooks with Wrench’s designs in them. His place was a fucking mess. At least the DVDs and videogames were confined to the front room, so there was a firm divide between digital and analogue clutter.

There was someone rustling around in the bathroom, so Marcus knocked on the door rather than heading down the hall. The rustling stopped, silence lasting long enough that Marcus lifted his knuckles again, and then Wrench’s modified voice went, “Marcus?”

“Yeah dude, it’s me. You gonna let me in, or am I going out and ordering us some breakfast burritos? Because I don’t trust your fridge, man. It’s scary in there.” Marcus dropped his hand and leaned against the door frame. After a couple seconds, it cracked open, Wrench’s mask displaying suspicious asterisks before flickering over to cheerful carets.

“What’s the password?” he asked, voice teasing.

“The password is ‘do you want breakfast burritos or are we getting waffles’. Seriously, I need to know before I decide on my route, these pokemon ain’t gonna catch themselves.” Marcus snorted as the door swung the rest of the way open, Wrench turning back to a… first aid kit?

“Ooooh, I am feeling _very_ waffles today. Though, uh, since you’re here, can I get a favor?” Wrench set the first aid kit down next to the toilet, revealing a needle set on the counter, empty vial next to it and the wrapper already in the garbage.

“Uh… You wanna elaborate on that favor, man?” Wrench wasn’t diabetic, was he? Marcus was pretty sure he would have figured that one out long before now, but he’d also never dicked around in Wrench’s bathroom. He was a pee and move on kind of guy, not the sort that went snooping in cabinets and drawers.

“Okay, so, you are _not_ allowed to laugh,” Wrench started, sitting down and holding his finger up for Marcus to stay quiet. “But I get shaky hands when I stick myself, okay? I don’t know what it is! Like, I never thought of myself as a guy afraid of needles, but that thing is like two inches fucking long, have you seen it? So my hands shake, and then I nick a capillary, and then it’s _blood everywhere_ for a couple minutes and it’s the fucking worst. So I just need you to stab me, that’s all.”

“You’ve got tattoos, man,” Marcus said, stepping into the bathroom and picking up the empty vial. He turned it over until he could find the label—testosterone cypionate, 200mg.

“I know! But a tattoo gun is nowhere near as freaky as a needle-needle is, and I’ve been stabbing myself for years and I _still_ shake like a motherfucker. My legs are so bruised man. So. Bruised.” Distressed slashes flashed over the mask, Wrench’s body language shifting to pleading.

“Don’t they have this in like, creams and shit? Or a pill? There’s gotta be a pill, right?” He set the vial down and eyed the needle. A thicker one was laying detached on the counter, but Wrench wasn’t lying about both needles being long as fuck. Yeesh.

“The pills haven’t been cleared by the FDA yet, and I don’t like the gels. I dunno, they just don’t work for me. It’s simple, I swear, you just have to stab me in the thigh, I’ll get my man juice going on, and then we can get waffles. Do me a solid?”

Wrench looked almost pathetic like that, in nothing but his mask and his underwear, electronic voice lifting in something that was not quite a whine. Marcus _knew_ he was trans, intellectually, but this was the first time he’d gotten a chance to see what that meant in a day to day sense. And that was a big deal, he knew that.

With as private and locked down as Wrench was about personal shit that mattered, this was a big show of trust. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he threw that back in his face?

“Okay, but you need to walk me through this, man. I don’t want to like… stab you in the artery and see you bleed out. We got waffles to eat and pokemon to catch,” Marcus said, picking up the needle and crouching down by Wrench’s legs.

“Yeah, no, of course! I’m not going to just give you free reign over stabbing me, not unless it’s with your penis,” Wrench said, briefly switching to a wink before his mask settled on neutral x’s. His hands traced out a quick grid automatically, lean, crooked fingers pinching the pale skin on his thigh as he steadied his leg. “So you’re going to push in here, slowly, _all the way down_. Like, get that motherfucker all the way in me, just like in the movies.”

“Right…” Marcus lined the needle up, the point sharp enough that it slid into Wrench’s muscle smoothly as he pushed it in. “And then just—?”

“Uh, pull up the plunger for a second to see if there’s blood.” They both watched the syringe as Marcus struggled to lift it more than a millimeter, the vacuum pressure working against him. “Okay, _now_ push down. Gently!”

“You know, when I talked about getting your pants off, this wasn’t exactly what I was picturing. Last night is more like what I was picturing. _Just_ saying,” he muttered, depressing the plunger until it had emptied.

“Look, man, I’m not the one that designed me this way. If I was in charge here, I’d have wings and a fire-breathing dragon for a dick. Yank that motherfucker out and we are good to go!” Wrench flashed carets again as Marcus pulled the needle out carefully, leaning over to grab a couple cotton balls and a bottle of alcohol. There wasn’t any blood, thank fuck.

“You got a place to dump this?” Marcus asked as he stood up, watching Wrench quickly wipe down the injection site before slapping a tiny bandaid over it.

“Sharps drawer is on the top left, just drop it in. The other needle too, actually. Rest can just go in the garbage.” Wrench snapped the first aid kit shut, then slid it under the sink where it belonged.

“How often do you even do this, man?” The sharps container was two-thirds full, layers of syringes and needles in a plastic container with a carefully designed lid. He dropped the used ones in and shut it, then turned on the sink to wash his hands. Might need to lotion them up afterwards, actually—Wrench kept Dial gold by all his sinks, and it was great for grease but absolutely shit for keeping skin from drying out.

“Once a week, every Sunday, between ten am and noon. Believe me, my ADD would love it if I could do it any other way, but the hormone gods are not kind, my love, they are not kind at _all_.” Tired equal signs blinked over his mask as Wrench leaned back on the toilet. “Ten to one, the guys at the chemical disposal plant think I’m an addict.”

“Uh, I’ve seen how you put away energy drinks, Wrench. You’re _totally_ an addict.” Marcus grinned at him, then hesitated before saying, “Do you want me to come by next week and help again? I mean, it’s not like I have anything better to do on a weekend.”

Wrench stared at him, tiny shocked o’s replacing the previous expression, before letting out a dreamy sigh and switching to hearts. “Has anyone told you you’re _perfect_ , Marcus?”

“Alright, now you’re making it weird,” he said with a laugh, drying his hands off and heading back into the bedroom to grab his clothes.

“Oh, believe me, I can make it much weirder! Don’t test me!”

“Yeah, I know! It’s not a competition, Wrench.”


End file.
